


Jeeves and the Tale of Two Friends

by violetvaria



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Damon and Pythias, Friendship, Gen, POV Alternating, POV First Person, retelling of Greek legend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 12:46:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18366308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetvaria/pseuds/violetvaria
Summary: Bertie has a nightmare. Jeeves tells a story.





	1. Chapter 1

I scowled fiercely at the blighted little object, feeling a spot of intimidation was just the ticket. It lay there, unwinking. Well, it wouldn’t, of course, but what I mean is that it didn’t. No sign of i. whatsoever.

I picked up the needle. Never let it be said that the last of the Woosters was faced down by a button! One naturally doesn’t want to carry on about one’s ancient lineage, but the Conqueror would have had a stern word or two for any rampant—I think I mean rampant—shirt buttons.

Now, normally, Jeeves is the one attending to these sartorial matters, if that’s the word I want. Unfortunately, that prop of the establishment was off revelling with Sir Watkyn Bassett, a hellhound of the first water. Thus the needle-and-threading fell squarely on Bertram.

I took a hefty jab at the thing, and the next moment the air was rent with a strangled cry—from me, not the fabric. The blasted needle had buried itself directly in the Wooster thumb. I’m not sure whether I tossed the whole apparatus away, but I rather think I did. It could wait for Jeeves, was my feeling, and I think it agreed with me.

The ‘phone seemed to beckon me. Weak, Wooster, very weak! the all and sundry might be crying. But I suc-something. Succumbed, that’s it. After all, Jeeves had claimed he would return within a week, and it had been precisely that now. I went to the instrument.

“Hallo, Totleigh Towers? Oh, Butterfield.” It was always a pleasure to chat with this estimable domestic. “Yes, yes, quite enough about the hat, old fellow.” I was all for hearing about butlers’ love-lives, but not when there were such pressing matters at hand. “Rout out Jeeves for me, will you?”

There was a longish silence at the other end of the wire as though an uncomfortable butler were being silent.

“Butterfield?” I prompted after a restful interval.

“I am afraid I cannot oblige your request, sir.”

He sounded a bit unsteady, and I wondered, not for the first time, if the man had been having a couple over the eight. Only a few days in the society of W. Bassett would have had me off my rocker without a stiffening snifter or two.

However, I was nettled. I said as much.

“Why the coyness, Butterfield? A simple request, is it not?” My tone was rather haughty, I admit.

“I am sorry, sir. It is quite impossible. Good day, sir.”

I stared at the speaker, astonished. The scourge of the Bassetts had slopped over to the butler, and dashed if he hadn’t hung up on me!

Well, there was only one thing to do, and I did it. To think is but to act, is the Woosters’ slogan. An hour later I was tooling through the open air in the old two-seater, feeling dashed heroic as I set off to rescue Jeeves from that den of iniquity. Not mine, that. One of Jeeves’s. Granted, dogs would be set on Bertram. Officers of the law might be called. But such are the risks the daring hero must take.

I fetched up at the front door in good time, and was met by that same unyielding person as had confronted—if I can say confronted when it was over the telephone—me only a short space before.

“Ah, good day, Butterfield,” I said, attempting suavity.

“Good day, Mr. Wooster,” he replied. Perfectly correct and all that, but not chirpy. He seemed perturbed. Indeed, it would not be going too far to say that he appeared distrait.

“Butterfield, you appear distrait,” I said, for one likes to be helpful. “One of Jeeves’s morning specials will have you right in two ticks. Fetch him for me, will you?”

He coughed, reminding me, oddly enough, of the topic of discussion—that is, Jeeves.

“I am afraid, sir, as I said on the telephone, I cannot accede to your request.”

We Woosters do not demand overwhelming gratitude, but this attitude from a man who only a week before had come into possession of my prize Alpine hat seemed a bit thick to me. I was about to say something pretty stinging—I don’t know what, but something—when Butterfield continued.

“Has no one contacted you, sir?”

“Contacted?”

“I deeply regret the omission, sir. Had I known my employer had not informed you, I should have taken it upon myself to do so, knowing Mr. Jeeves’s feelings in the matter, sir.”

I was completely fogged. The man seemed to be babbling out the back of his neck.

“Yes, dashed interesting and all that, my good man, but what the dickens are you on about?”

“I am very sorry to have to inform you, sir, that Mr. Jeeves is dead.”


	2. Chapter 2

Although I had retired at my customary hour and fallen into a contented sleep, I was awakened in the small hours of the morning by an unusual noise. Years of training ensured I was a light sleeper, so that if the bell should happen to ring, I would answer in a timely manner. This, however, was something much different. I should almost describe it as a cry.

I arose, donned a dressing-gown, and went to the master bedroom, from whence the noise seemed to be issuing.

“Jeeves!”

Although my movements had been rapid, my young gentleman was nearly screaming by the time I entered the room, each word increasing in volume.

“Jeeves! Jeeves!”

I temporarily overlooked the unkempt bedclothes and dishevelled appearance of my gentleman. “Sir?”

“Jeeves!”

I neared the bed. “Sir, are you all right?”

“Jeeves!”

Believing my gentleman to be in the grip of a nightmare, I gently brushed his shoulder, hoping to rouse him.

“ _No_! Jeeves!” Mr. Wooster began thrashing once more, nearly connecting a fist with my own midsection.

“I apologize for the taking the liberty, sir,” I murmured. I lifted a hand and slapped his face.

The effect was immediate and all I could have hoped for. Clarity returned to his feverishly bright eyes.

“Jeeves?”

“Yes, sir.”

There was a pause, during which my young gentleman blinked several times rapidly in succession.

“Jeeves?” he repeated in a whisper.

“Yes, sir.”

He emitted a strangled sound, still staring up at me, and then he began shaking so fiercely I worried he had taken ill.

“Sir?”

“Jeeves!” This time the cry was close to a sob. “Jeeves!” Then my young gentleman stretched out his arms and threw himself forward, catching at my dressing-gown. “Jeeves!”

For some reason to which I was not yet privy, my employer felt the need to abandon propriety. For half an hour I sat on the bed, my young gentleman sobbing quietly into the collar of my nightwear and clutching about my shoulders.

“Sir?” I spoke when he appeared calmer, but the sound of my voice only served to tighten his grip.

“Jeeves…you’re back…” he finally whispered.

“Yes, sir. If you recall, I returned earlier this evening.”

He did not respond except to shudder.

“Sir?”

His voice was much lower. “I—I thought you were dead.”

“Dead, sir?”

There was a movement on my neck that I took to be a nod. “Butterfield told me so.”

I lifted an eyebrow at this information. “Indeed, sir?”

“And Bassett, the old hound, wasn’t even going to tell me.”

I felt obliged to raise a point. “Sir, even were the information true, until a few hours ago I was not in your employ.”

He released a muffled high-pitched sound into my shoulder. I endeavoured to allay his fears.

“Sir, as you can see for yourself, I am quite well.  Perhaps the events you relate occurred in a dream while you were sleeping?”

At this, he lifted his head, staring directly into my eyes from mere centimeters away. Slowly, he nodded.

“I got stabbed by a needle.”

I am generally accustomed to my gentleman’s caprices of conversation, but this _non sequitur_ had quite baffled me.

“Sir?”

He lifted his thumb, and indeed, there was a small, swollen area on the skin.

“Sir, I believe you have a splinter. If you will allow me…” I reached for his beside table, extracting one of the many small items I have placed there for his convenience. With the aid of the tweezers, I was soon able to remove the offending sliver of wood. I made a note to have my gentleman’s bedposts examined and perhaps refinished the next day.

Mr. Wooster sat unmoving as I replaced the tweezers and closed the drawer. He continued gazing at his still-uplifted hand, but his attitude was that of a man far distant from this time and place.

“Sir?” I repeated the query twice more before gaining his attention.

“Oh, Jeeves.” He looked up, his normally expressive face oddly devoid of emotion. “I…thank you, Jeeves.”

“Not at all, sir.” I hesitated to take leave of him; he seemed desirous of my company, a perhaps natural reaction after a nightmare such as the one he had experienced.

“Would you like a cup of tea, sir?”

“Eh?” I waited while he grappled with this offer. “Er, yes, thank you, Jeeves. Tea would—would quite hit the spot, what?”

“I believe so, sir.”

Mr. Wooster relaxed back against the pillows, but as I stood, he sat upright once more.

“Do you require anything else, sir?”

There was a long moment during which my gentleman blinked confusedly at me. “Jeeves…”

“Sir?”

“Perhaps—perhaps I could come with you. You shouldn’t have to carry that tray all the way back here, what?”

“As you wish, sir.” Naturally, I would say nothing about this unusual offer, but it concerned me slightly. It meant my young gentleman was still not feeling himself.

After I had helped him don his dressing-gown, he quietly accompanied me to the kitchen. He silently took the chair I held for him, but I could feel his eyes on me as I filled the kettle.

“You’re really not dead, Jeeves,” he finally said, and his voice, in sharp contradistinction to his normal animated tones, was heavy and troubled.

“No, sir.”

“You were never dead.”

“No, sir. Once a person is dead, he customarily remains that way.”

Mr. Wooster turned suddenly in his chair, drawing his legs up and wrapping his arms around his knees. “It was like you were dead, Jeeves.”

“Sir?”

“When you were gone.” His next words were muffled, as his head bent into his dressing-gown. “What would I do if you were gone forever, Jeeves?”

I took a step forward without realizing I was doing so. “Sir…”

“Jeeves.” My gentleman looked up again, straightening, his tone urgent. “You _won’t_ leave me, will you?”

“Certainly not, sir,” I said gently.

Mr. Wooster stood swiftly, grasping the sleeve of my dressing-gown in a fierce grip. “Ever, Jeeves? You won’t ever leave me by myself?”

I confess I found myself at a loss. I could not honestly promise such a thing; though my health was excellent, my gentleman was several years my junior.

“Well, Jeeves?”

“Sir, I am afraid—”

“No, Jeeves! No!” Mr. Wooster’s voice choked off, and he gazed at the floor for a moment. When he next looked up, his eyes were bright and damp. “Give your word, Jeeves. Just give me your word.”

I spoke slowly. “Sir, I promise that as long as it is within my power to do so, I shall stay by your side.”

There was another weighty silence, finally broken by a long sigh from my young gentleman. It sounded like tentative relief. There was an answering whistle from the teakettle, and I moved to retrieve it. Mr. Wooster rather reluctantly loosed his clasp and sat once more at the table. I served him his tea along with a small plate of biscuits. He stared down at the dish as he nibbled and sipped.

“I am reminded, sir, of a Grecian legend.”

Mr. Wooster looked up, his eyes puzzled but completely trusting.

“I believe you are familiar with the story, sir, as I have heard you mention the principals involved. It concerns two friends, Damon and Pythias.”

“Bosom pals,” my gentleman murmured almost absently, a fleeting smile lighting his face.

“As you say, sir. If you will recall, Pythias was accused of a crime punishable by death.”

“Rather hard on a chap,” Mr. Wooster interpolated indistinctly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do sit down, Jeeves. I can’t keep looking up at you like this.”

It was an unusual request, but I did not question it. “As you wish, sir.” I sat across from him at the small table. I generally took my own meals at this table, but my gentleman dined in the other room. Yet he did not seem awkward in this new position. As the seconds passed, he appeared more and more at ease.

A few moments elapsed, and then Mr. Wooster shook himself as though coming out of a dream. “Which chappie was it that was headed off to the old gallows, Jeeves?”

“Pythias, sir.”

“Ah, yes.”

“However, he wished to return to his family one last time to settle his affairs and to bid them good-bye.”

Mr. Wooster shuddered. “I’d rather prance on up to the gallows than tell my Aunt Agatha I’d been shuttered up in gaol.”

“There is much in what you say, sir.”

“Still, I suppose your Greek fellow didn’t have an Aunt Agatha.”

“There is no mention of it, sir. Dionysius, the tyrant who had sentenced Pythias, refused permission, in spite of the assurances from Pythias that he would return.”

“Thought he’d fly off somewhere.”

“Most probably, sir.”

“A suspicious sort of bird, wouldn’t you say, Jeeves? A man’s word not good enough for him. Must have been a magistrate.”

“Fortunately for Pythias, sir, his friend, Damon, offered to serve as security for his companion’s return.”

“Put up the bond, you mean?”

“Not precisely, sir. Damon himself was the bond. The agreement was that Damon would be imprisoned until Pythias’ return. Should Pythias not arrive by the appointed date, Damon would be put to death in his place.”

“Rather rum, that, Jeeves.”

“Yes, sir. However, those were the terms arranged.”

“A trusting sort of chap, wouldn’t you say, Jeeves?”

“Damon, sir? Yes, sir. He—” I hesitated to ensure I spoke most carefully. “He had absolute faith in his friend.”

“Silly ass.”

“Indeed, sir, Dionysius was of the opinion that Pythias would not return. The day of the scheduled execution arrived, and still there had been no word from Pythias. Damon was to be put to death.”

My gentleman’s hands had been resting on the table, centimeters from the empty cup and saucer. Now they tightened, twisting around each other, and his head bowed over them.

“Dionysius mocked Damon for his foolish choice. Damon remained calm, maintaining that some unexpected delay had befallen his friend, as he knew Pythias would not let him down were it within his power to do so.”

Mr. Wooster looked up again, gazing at me intently.

“He…did make it back, didn’t he?” His voice was the high, cracked voice of a child tested past its endurance, but behind the tone lay the certainty that only comes to a man who has found a pearl of wisdom.

“Yes, sir. Pythias arrived just before Damon was to be executed, explaining that his ship had been captured and he had been forced to effect an escape from the pirates. He expressed himself willing, however, to take his appointed place.”

This statement appeared to depress my young gentleman. “So Pythias died instead of what’s-his-name.”

“No, sir. Dionysius was greatly moved by the display of loyalty and dedication. He freed both young men.”

“Really, Jeeves?”

“Yes, sir.”

There was a pause and Mr. Wooster appeared to reflect upon this.

“But then what happened to them? What did they do?”

“Dionysius asked them to be counsellors for his court, sir. One presumes that they spent their lives as they had spent their youth.”

Mr. Wooster, while in some respects rather innocent and not inclined to great mental exercise, is in other ways far more perspicacious than I would allow others to realize. He smiled a smile blinding in its perfect peace. “Together.”

“Yes, sir.”

My gentleman stood, stretching contentedly. “I’m worn to a nub, Jeeves. Time to resume those interrupted eight hours.”

I rose also. “An excellent idea, sir.”

He halted at the doorway, looking back. “He really did manage to come back?”

“Yes, sir. He did.”

Mr. Wooster smiled again. “Thank you, Jeeves.”

I watched his slender figure glide back to the master bedroom, his movements free and easy.

“My pleasure, sir.”


End file.
